


Will it be poison I put in my glass? Will it be slow or will it be fast?

by Mook_aron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean in Hell, Hell, Hurt Sam Winchester, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Torture, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mook_aron/pseuds/Mook_aron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of oneshots of the memories that haunt Dean.</p>
<p>Dean and Sam have always been close. Sam is scored deep into his bones and every sinew of his heart. Alastair makes sure of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will it be poison I put in my glass? Will it be slow or will it be fast?

**Author's Note:**

> The first in a series of semi-connected one-shots. Be warned, I do not write happy stories. This will not end happily.

Dean and Sam have always been close. Sam is scored deep into his bones and every sinew of his heart. Alastair makes sure of it.

 

 

 

 

Hell is never quiet.

 

The soft sound of the sizzle of his flesh is closest, the pain almost ordinary now. The cacophony of inhuman shrieks have become a familiar backdrop to his own pain and it’s only a flash of time in the stretch of eternity that he takes to think about the sounds. 

 

They seem to have figured out in their time that rest produce startlingly horrible and amusing results from souls in the pit. And in his rest- he listens.

 

And wishes he hadn’t.

 

Because the pain had grounded his mind- brought him down and deep into the cavity of his chest into the eviscerated space of his torso- and centred him into who he was, so that though he might lose himself amongst the silence but never in the pain.

 

There’s a sound he’d know anywhere.

 

_“De!”_

 

It’s the soft cry of Sam- but it’s the voice of a young child, not cracking with the onset of maturity. And he cannot stop a hoarse cry choking from his throat as he cracks open his eyes, confronted with an image that will burn into his eyes and he will never be able to carve it from his bones.

 

Because his brother is stretched out on a rack, whites showing in terror and lounging nearby is Alastair, a blade slowly dancing over his knuckles as he grins at Dean.

 

“Thought we’d try something different today.”

 

It takes only moments to register in his mind and the surge of red that overtakes him is a horror flooding his veins with acid and blind rage. But the rack holds fast and Dean’s very nature rebels. This is _Sam_ , his Sammy and he’s there, in this place that he wanted to save him from and he cannot save him. Dean has _always_ saved Sam, always tried and struggled and made it right.

 

Sam’s childish eyes are locked on the blade that traces across his torso, no pressure but merely shivering with the cold tang of the metal. But his eyes meet Dean’s in blind fear and it’s when their eyes meet that metal breaks skin-

 

And then there is screaming, hoarse and pained and ragged. Dean screams as Sam screams, his skin parting beneath that blade like watermelon in the sun. It’s one thing to feel torture upon your skin- and it’s beyond torture to see his eight year old brother’s skin split open, peeled open in the same manner of so many post-mortems. 

 

Sam was a skinny kid and you could count his first few ribs but Dean can see inside of him now, his face a mask of agony and terror and _Dean has failed him._

 

_He has failed in all the ways that matter._

 


End file.
